Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
"Thank you," I whisper, trying to pull myself together. Shocked he knows enough about me to know who my mom is or that she died. Just…completely off-balanced by this cowboy.
"What kind of art do you do?"
"Drawing and painting," I whisper.
His lips curve into another of those charming smiles. "Yeah? You going to draw something for me?"
I'm not really surprised by the request. Most people ask when they find out that I draw. I usually turn them down, simply because people devalue art and artists far too much. They would never work for free, but they expect artists to do it, and that annoys me. But I hesitate this time, simply because I've been itching to draw him since I saw him standing beside Danny last week. I'm desperate to capture the softness in his eyes, and the way his lips curve when he's amused.
"Maybe," I say.
The way he smiles at me has my heart ready to beat out of my chest. And I know damn well that isn't a good thing.
"I, uh, I should get back to work," I mutter, taking a quick step back.
His hand falls from on top of mine, landing flat against the bar. He leaves it there, his fingers touching mine, his eyes locked with mine.
"You do that, beautiful," he practically purrs. "I'll be right here."
I gulp, spinning away to find something—anything—to do.
Midway through my shift the next night, I place a sheet of paper on the bar in front of him, face down.
"What's this?" he asks, glancing from it to me.
"You asked me to draw something for you last night." I shrug nervously. "I had a few minutes."
His eyes light up before he even flips it over, and then they widen. One thick, calloused finger traces the charcoal lines. They aren't great. There's only so much you can do in a bar when you're constantly being interrupted. But…it's not a bad likeness, either.
I didn't quite capture the softness of his eyes, but it's a half-decent first attempt. He's seated right where he is now, staring off into the distance, his face in profile, his hat pulled low. He looks rugged and beautiful at the same time, just like he does sitting there every night.
"Goddamn, baby," he whispers, shock and awe in his voice. "You just did this?"
"I mean, it took a little while," I grumble. "Cowboys drink a lot, but…yeah."
"It's incredible."
"It's okay."
He glances up from the drawing, meeting my gaze. "No, Harlow. It's incredible."
I swallow hard, my heart hammering again. "Thank you."
"Can I keep it?"
I hesitate and then nod. "But you aren't allowed to sell it, okay?"
"Sell it?" He cocks a brow like that's an absurd ask. "Baby, I'm framing this."
My heart flutters. "It's not that great, Wade."
"Yes, it is." He narrows his eyes at me. "Don't deny your talent."
"I'm not," I protest. "I just didn't have much time, so I know it could be better. That's all."
"Why are you working here instead of doing this every day?" he asks, holding up the drawing.
"You ever tried to make a living off art?" I quirk a brow at him, crossing my arms. "It's not easy, and bills don't wait for a piece to sell." Especially when you have as many as I do. My mom's care wasn't cheap. I'll be on my deathbed before I finish paying off all the loans I had to take out to ensure she had more than the bare minimum insurance provided.
He frowns and then nods, tucking the drawing in his pocket. "When are you off?"
"Tomorrow. The bar's closed. Why?"
"I want you to go somewhere with me."
My heart thuds unevenly. "I don't date men who drink at my bar, Wade."
He just grins at me, nodding toward his usual Coke. "Then it's a good thing I haven't been drinking in your bar, isn't it, beautiful?"
"Wade…"
"Go out with me," he says again, his voice pitched low, something intense in his gaze. "Just once, Harlow. I promise you won't regret it."
That isn't the problem, not even close. It's the exact opposite. I know I won't regret saying yes to him, and that's a problem. His life is on the ranch. Mine is…well, I'm still figuring mine out.
I've spent the last year just trying to keep it together. Now, I'm back here, and I'm still not keeping it together, let alone making any progress. He's got it all figured out already. He knows who he is and what he wants. Me? I'm twenty-six and still in survival mode, just like I have been for most of my life.
"That's not a good idea," I whisper, unable to hide the regret in my voice.
"Yeah, it is," he says just as softly. "And that's what scares you, isn't it?"
"I…"
He leans across the bar suddenly, brushing his lips across my cheek. "You're allowed to want me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a deep scrap of sound against my skin before he drops back down onto his stool like he never moved at all.